


Intake

by CerysKitty



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, PWP
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-29
Updated: 2013-06-29
Packaged: 2017-12-16 12:26:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,307
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/862022
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CerysKitty/pseuds/CerysKitty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cyclonus wants to know what's under Tailgate's mask.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Intake

**Author's Note:**

> This is a birthday fic for Robohaven on Tumblr :3
> 
> I kind of bashed it out, and I've barely written any fic recently so it's a bit janky in places, but ahh it's done and I'm pretty happy with it so up it goes!
> 
> I owe one more birthday fic but arghhh I have so many fics to write, but no free time *gross sobbing* one day I'll finish my main fics but alas that is not today ;__;

‘I don’t really… You probably won’t like it.’ Tailgate shifted awkwardly under Cyclonus’ unwavering stare, avoiding meeting his optics as he twiddled his digits in his lap. He didn’t know why Cyclonus had suddenly decided he wanted to see what was under his mask, and the request to show him had come out of nowhere whilst they’d been comfortably… Well, Tailgate was snuggling, Cyclonus was reading a ‘pad while he put up with the minibot clinging to his frame.

And now they were both sitting up, datapad to the side and forgotten as Cyclonus waited for a proper answer.

‘I’ll decide that for myself.’ Tailgate slumped slightly at the words; often, Cyclonus was happy to let him keep things to himself, and would leave the topic alone if he asked him to, but then there were other times, like now, when he’d just sit and wait for an answer. His patience was really commendable to be honest.

‘Right… You sure I can’t-’ A strong servo on his shoulder made him cut off, and he looked up and found himself speechless at the almost sympathetic look in Cyclonus’ optics, and it suddenly clicked that the other mech knew what was under his mask. Though thinking about it of course he would, as he was alive long before Tailgate, and would have known about the limitations put on serving mechs, pit he’d probably had servants of his own. Socially, he’d been a little above Rewind; drones could handle most problems, so waste disposal units like himself weren’t as mass produced as the little memory sticks were, but still, no one wanted to put too much work or credits into a frame which was little more than a sentient cleaning drone.

He sighed slightly, a habit he’d picked up from Rewind, and braced himself to get it over and done with as soon as possible, preparing himself for the inevitable repulsion from Cyclonus. Which was a shame because he was really happy with the way things were go-

Click.

He clicked his mask open before those thoughts could settle over him, the front section sliding down to reveal his oral intake, irised firmly shut. He still didn’t dare look up at the other mech, not ready to see the look of disgust which always crossed a mech’s face when they saw what hid within his ‘mask’.

He was sinking further into his dark thoughts when a light brush on his jaw startled him into looking up, only to meet Cyclonus’ optics and he looked… Well, he didn’t look disgusted. Curious perhaps? Sympathetic was probably pushing it, but it certainly wasn’t what Tailgate expected, and it felt like his spark was flipping with a new sense of hope.

He could only stare into Cyclonus’ optics as a sharp digit lightly traced over the intake, the secondary cover opening slightly at the unfamiliar touch, untouched plating sending tiny shoots of data through his frame. And then a claw tip softly poked inside, gently prompting it to open the rest of the way and Tailgate’s vents hitched, his own servos shakily reaching up to rest on the other’s chest.

Tailgate was struggling to find something to say or do, at a complete loss with the unexpected turn of events as sensory data he’d never before experienced took over his processor. It felt good, ridiculously good in fact, to have this part of him touched and accepted, and the way Cyclonus was stroking at the walls of his intake, feeling out the unyielding sides, was in such a close mimicry of what he might do to his valve that Tailgate could feel his frame begin to heat in response.

And then just like that the digit was gone, and Tailgate had only a moment to feel disappointed before Cyclonus was bending down to softly kiss the opening.

It was so unexpected, and so unfamiliar that it took a moment for Tailgate to even realise what was happening, during which time Cyclonus tugged him until he was half in the larger mech’s lap, scrabbling for purchase against his broad chest. Cyclonus’ lip plates weren’t exactly the most supple, but he made up for that lack of dexterity with constant movement, mouthing at the opening, grazing his denta where he could before soothing over with his glossa. The minibot was so focused on the kiss, that he didn’t even register the touch to his aft until he was pulled up, Cyclonus lifting him a little before everything flipped, and he was flat on his back, the other mech between his legs, one servos supporting him while the other traced along the Tailgate’s inner thigh, all while never breaking the kiss.

It was completely overwhelming and a struggle to think about reciprocating, though Tailgate tried his best, clutching at Cyclonus and trying his hardest to remember where best to run his servos. He was doing quite well, if the muffled moans were anything to go by, but a sudden deliberate press against his interface panel quickly made him lose focus, and the way Cyclonus circled and pressed over the cover left him mindlessly clutching once again.

Another rough touch, coupled with Cyclonus nipping again at his intake, and Tailgate’s panel shot open while he gasped into the other’s mouth. The larger mech instantly pressed two digits inside, slipping in easily with a vulgar wet noise, and didn’t let Tailgate adjust before he was spreading and stroking the lining, crooking his digits to find and manipulate the sensors. At the same time, Cyclonus began to push his glossa deeper, stroking along his intake walls in time with his digits, leaving the minibot a writhing mess beneath him.

His spike quickly rose between them, where it’s short length became trapped between their bodies, the friction of their movements sending jolts of pleasure through his body, and the dual sensation of spike and valve stimulation made him twitch and whine, wriggling erratically to get as much pleasure as he could. He also desperately wanted to return the kiss, but short of pressing into the movements of Cyclonus’ mouth, there wasn’t much he could do.

Except, with a sudden thought, maybe there was.

His hips were moving of their own accord by down, pushing into Cyclonus’ thrusts, yet Tailgate managed to muster his thoughts enough to very slowly, and carefully, close the secondary intake cover, the platelets irising shut slightly until they encircled Cyclonus’ glossa, at which point he opened them back out again. He repeated it twice, his movements hesitant as he feared being pushed away, but Cyclonus only grunted and delved his glossa deeper, and slipped another digit into his valve, the stretch causing Tailgate to buck and scramble with his pedes, until he managed to hook them around the other’s legs.

While he worked with his secondary cover, Tailgate realised the oral lubricant from Cyclonus’ glossa was making his intake wetter than he was used to, and he reflexively rippled the tubing to try and swallow it away. The throaty moan from Cyclonus was an added surprise, though he was quick to repeat it, alternating between manipulating the cover and his throat tubing. All of a sudden however, that hot mouth pulled back and Tailgate was left wondering what was wrong, until sharp denta began to scrape and nip along his jaw, before moving on to lick and kiss at his throat cables, his helm automatically falling back so that Cyclonus had better access.

He wasn’t sure when his servos had stopped moving, though when he realised he quickly put them back to work, tracing seams and working their way into gaps. He could feel the heat from Cyclonus’ panel against his thigh, and he wondered why he hadn’t released it yet, though that thought was quickly lost when the larger mech pulled away and sat back, lazily continuing to thrust his digits while he looked down at the minibot.

The look in his optics was… Hungry, was probably the most apt word. Hungry, and dark and full of lust, and Tailgate felt so vulnerable, like weak prey, and pit if it didn’t make his spark burn within his chest.

He tried to speak, but only garbled static came from his vocaliser, and Cyclonus only smirked wickedly at that, poking deliberately at a particularly receptive sensor, and humming in amusement when Tailgate whimpered and tried to twitch his hips up even further into the touch.

‘Did you want something?’ Another thrust had Tailgate whimpering, then a following brush along his spike had him trying to choke out an answer.

‘I-please! Oh p-primus please! I need- I need oh! Oh please!’ He wriggled, pedes lightly kicking the berth whilst his servos rose slightly, reaching for Cyclonus. ‘Please?’ He knew he sounded pitiful, pathetic in his begging, but he also knew it drove Cyclonus crazy, made his engines rev and growl, and he didn’t care if he’d be sore in the morning, right now he wanted Cyclonus to just take him.

He wasn’t disappointed. With another pathetic whimper, Cyclonus was growling, panel clicking back to allow his spike to spring free, and Tailgate only got a glance of the thick length before the digits were pulled from his valve, only to be replaced immediately with the other’s spike, barely even pausing before he pushed in, hilting himself in one solid thrust. 

White static erupted in Tailgate’s vision, and he was vaguely aware of himself crying out loudly before everything was lost the the sensation of the overload suddenly crashing over him, unable to do anything except cry and weakly paw at the broad chest in front of him, while his frame spasmed and writhed under Cyclonus’s bulk. It seemed to last an age, though that was almost certainly due to Cyclonus not relenting through his overload, continuing to ram into his clenching valve, moaning above him while he watched the expressions flit across Tailgate’s face.

When Tailgate had calmed slightly, and was mewling and gasping while he tried to weakly keep up with Cyclonus’ pace, the larger mech hunched down and bent so that he could ruthlessly kiss and bite at the minibot’s intake again. It was completely unlike the first kiss which, whilst possessive, still allowed for Tailgate to reciprocate. Instead, this kiss was wholly dominating, bordering on painful if not for the quick, soothing licks after every bite, and Tailgate happily took it, pushing back when he could and encouraging Cyclonus to take what he wanted from him.

It didn’t take much, not with the speed and strength which Cyclonus was pushing himself at, and with a strangled grunt he thrust once more, his frame shaking a little as he emptied into the minibot. While the other was still, concentrating on his pleasure, Tailgate softly ran his small servos up and over the other’s jaw and helm, reaching to stroke the base of his remaining horn. He was still somewhat charged up, though it didn’t matter so much; they’d each overloaded, and perhaps now he could convince Cyclonus to cuddle for a while.

Red optics flickered back online to blearily gaze at the minibot below, and Tailgate brightened his visor in a ‘smile’ as he withdrew his servos. They held each other’s gaze for a moment, before Cyclonus looked down between their frames.

‘You’re still aroused.’ It wasn’t a question, and the happy feeling in Tailgate’s spark dropped with new embarrassment.

‘It’s fine, really uh… Don’t worry…’ He was such pain. Cyclonus always gave him such nice attention, and he couldn’t even be satisfied with that.

Apparently, Cyclonus could also read his mind, if the stern glare was anything to go by.

‘I left you unfulfilled, therefore it is my responsibility to rectify it.’

‘What! No it’s not your fault I jus-!’ His babbling was cut off when a servo wrapped around his half-hard spike, fully encompassing the small length. A soft squeeze and all thoughts vanished as he slumped back, arousal suddenly flickering it’s way back though his frame. It really didn’t take much to bring him to the edge; the servo covered him so fully, stimulated every sensor along his spike, and with just a small tug and twist of Cyclonus’ wrist Tailgate was tensing again. Another couple of twists and pulls and he was bracing, and it was with a final squeeze that Tailgate overloaded again with a soft cry, his hips jerking as he spilled into Cyclonus’ servo.

Thankfully, the overload wasn’t anywhere near as strong as the first, as if it was he’d probably have been knocked out, but it still felt amazing, even more so when Cyclonus pulled and bundled him up, moving them both over to the clean berth where he settled them both down. They were both still messy, but it was nothing compared to the state of the other berth, and they’d clean up tomorrow when they had the energy.

Sighing, Tailgate finally closed his oral intake back up, and snuggled a little into the berth, only to yelp in surprise when Cyclonus tugged him into his side and wrapped an arm around him, effectively pinning him in place. It was… It was actually nice, and the way Cyclonus stroked down his spinal strut a few times was comforting and-

‘Stop thinking, and recharge.’ I single red optic flickered on to watch him. ‘You need to rest, as I fully intend to see what else that intake is capable of in the morning.’

It took a moment, and the realisation must have been apparent on his face because Cyclonus merely smirked and shuttered his optic. Another brush along his back and Tailgate shuffled in closer, his own optics flicking off. Yeah, he’d definitely need some rest, and a trip to the wash racks. Although he could always surprise Cyclonus in the wash racks, and now wasn’t that an idea…


End file.
